Five is the number of pregnancy tests I’ve failed so far, paid for with hard-earned ca$h. I don’t know for certain yet, but I may have been able to forgo those useless pee-sticks just by taking a hard look at the empirical evidence.
It started last month when I found myself thoroughly PISSED-OFF at anyone that dared cross me, to a degree I only remember feeling once before, which was the six months surrounding the three month “honeymoon” stage of my first pregnancy.
People doing the same stupid things people normally do really worked me up. Things including but not limited to:
Putting words in quotes for no discernible reason. What does “adorable” mean??? That it’s not adorable? That you want me to hear you saying adorable over all the other stuff you just said? Is it an inside joke with someone else?
People who park in front of my pull through spot just as I’m about to leave.
People who repeat a funny thing they just said for the next person, making the original person have to hear it again when it was not funny to begin with.
People who work at a store that offer to Google answers to my questions instead of just answering my question.
People who babble loudly at coffee shops about how they understand how women in Asia don’t want to get married because of all the burdens of the patriarchal society, thus repeatedly shattering my already compromised concentration as I very scientifically try to calculate my next baby’s due date by counting 40 weeks on my iPhone calendar whose numbers are so tiny I can’t even use my finger to count them without accidentally calling someone I met once in college!
Anyway, then I started misplacing things like that damn bag of marshmallows, only to discover a week later it was inside a grocery bag to disguise it from my toddler.
Then I got a bad case of the dropsies.
This began one night when I tried saving myself an extra three yard walk back into the kitchen by carrying my water bottle, cell phone, computer charger and mug of hot chocolate all balanced incoherently atop of each other, thus dropping the whole operation on the floor and rendering myself hot chocolate-less for the evening. The next night I made it to the sofa with my hot chocolatey goodness, and decided to see if I could balance the mug on my now-protruding belly. Come to find later that I could not, rendering myself hot chocolate-less yet again.
And the smell. WHOA! I smell so bad I’m tempted to dip the pregnancy test in my armpit because that stank is unmistakably a nasty hormonal brew. It’s so bad that at the gym, the girl on the treadmill next to me either was having an epileptic fit and gnawing her shirt collar, or she was covering her nose. I really think it was the latter because later, when I shut my sweaty gym clothes in my locker, green flames licked through the vent, and when I opened the door letting the stench pour out, it burned a hole in the carpet and three people died.
Lastly, there’s the nausea, aka “morning sickness.” Though for me and a lot of other women morning sickness rarely occurs in the morning. I think there must have been confusion at some point with the original term “mourning sickness.” Which described the pregnant woman’s feelings of mourning and loss for freedoms such as her once large and active vocabulary that will soon struggle to remember nouns such as “basket” and “spoon”, her participation in $5 sushi Wednesdays, a winter coat that zips.
If I am pregnant, I’d be over the moon happy. New baby smell, an excuse to wear lots of elastic, an answer to the oft repeated question of, “So when you gonna pop out more?”
But need to know! I need to know if it’s time to adopt the holier-than-thou-don’t-curse-in-my-presence-hook-me-up-with-free-stuff-and-open-doors-for-me pregnant woman aura, or if I should keep trying to get my old swagger back. What clothes do I get out for the fall? Is it time to dust off my old mountain bike, or do I need to sell it to the scrap metal yard for money to buy breast milk storage bags?